


The Other Method

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, F/M, Fertility Issues, Full Shift Werewolves, Knotting, Married Couple, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Reproductive health, Trying For A Baby, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wolfed Out Sex, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28476264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: “Let me think,” she murmurs, her lips brushing along his jaw. “Do I want my strong, powerful husband to take me to the Nemeton and lay me out under the full moon, taking me in his full-shift and breeding me until I’m so worn out you’ll have to carry me, all sticky with sweat and come, back to the car?” She squirms against him, knowing her scent has filled with spicy ginger arousal. “Yeah, you’re right. That sounds terrible. A real hardship. We should definitely call it off.”Peter exhales sharply when she presses her hip against the bulge in his jeans. “How is it that you’re 32 and still a brat?”
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 76
Kudos: 538





	The Other Method

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year, my lovelies! And Happy Friday to those who aren't celebrating the end of 2020 and beginning of a new--hopefully better--year. I'm hoping to get us all off on the right foot with a fic I've been working at on and off for four months, because meatspace is batshit, LoL. 
> 
> *throws a handful of confetti*

“Are you sure?” Peter’s eyes are warm as he scans her face, and Stiles can’t lie—she’s touched by the concern.

“You said this would probably help, right?” At this point, that’s the only thing that matters to her.

The hand he cups round the back of her neck is gentle. “It might,” he says softly, “but we can keep trying, look into other methods.”

She gives him the flattest look she can at that, because they’d tried the natural way for a couple years before going to the fertility clinic. They’ve already tried other methods. Other methods have failed. “This _is_ our other method, Peter.” She pauses as an unlikely possibility occurs to her. “Unless it’s something _you_ don’t want?”

A rueful smile sneaks across his face. “I’d love nothing more than to have you that way, but I know it’s more extreme than most would be interested in, let alone agree to. I need to know it’s something you want, as an experience, not just a means to an end.”

The intensity in his face makes her realize that for all that she’s the obvious pervert here, asking her Alpha werewolf husband to fuck her in the full-shift because there’s a chance it’ll help them on their quest to conceive is a Big Ask. She didn’t think it would matter to him all that much, because she’s known for years that she married a pervert. Hell, that was part of why she married him. But now that she’s stopping to think about it for a moment, she realizes that, well. She’s not only putting a lot of responsibility in his hands to not hurt her, she’s _also_ asking him to full-shift for her, which she knows he has a lot of feelings about. 

Luckily, she knows how to reassure the deliciously perverted man she married.

She hums, draping her arms over his broad shoulders and pressing up against his front. “Let me think,” she murmurs, her lips brushing along his jaw. “Do I want my strong, powerful husband to take me to the Nemeton and lay me out under the full moon, taking me in his full-shift and breeding me until I’m so worn out you’ll have to carry me, all sticky with sweat and come, back to the car?” She squirms against him, knowing her scent has filled with spicy ginger arousal. “Yeah, you’re right. That sounds terrible. A real hardship. We should definitely call it off.”

Peter exhales sharply when she presses her hip against the bulge in his jeans. “How is it that you’re 32 and still a brat?”

She lifts one leg, wrapping it around his hip and trusting him to keep them from toppling to the floor as she grinds, just a little, against his thigh. “Your brat.”

His hands drop to her ass, pulling her in tighter against him and putting more pressure behind the little hitches of her hips. “Yes, moon help me,” he mutters.

***

It takes a little while to get the timing right so the full moon coincides with her ovulation window, or at least close enough to be worthwhile. But once that night comes, they pack up their trusty new Jeep—alas, Roscoe died for good in the Derek Incident of 2018—with pillows and thick blankets, water, towels, lube, easy-to-eat foods, and a loaded shotgun with backup wolfsbane shells. Mostly because Stiles doesn’t know what to expect, and feels better being prepared for absolutely everything. Peter lets her go ham, happy to enjoy the end result.

Until they actually reach the Nemeton, that is. Then he gets particular—about which blankets should be layered upon the stump and in what order, how close their supplies should be, when he’ll shift. Stiles puts up with it for about ten minutes before losing her patience.

“Okay, what gives?”

He doesn’t look up at her. “What do you mean?”

She flaps a hand at the clearing and his fussing, knowing he’ll notice the movement even if he doesn’t look up at her properly. “Don’t play dumb with me, Peter, we both know you’re bad at it.”

He sighs, and continues fiddling with the layout of their supplies. “Once I’ve shifted, I won’t . . .” he trails off. Stiles gets the impression that this is, for whatever reason, something that’s really bothering him, so she bites the inside of her cheek and waits him out rather than ‘helping’ him along with a sarcastic comment or three. After a long moment, he finally meets her eyes, and she sees the stress-lines he tries to claim he doesn’t have curving between his brows. “I won’t have hands, or the ability to speak. And I can’t shift back partway through, because of the full moon.”

The rest of what he’s not saying hits her like a truck, and she’s reminded—yet again—why she married him. “You’re worried you won’t be able to”— _take care of me_ —“adjust on the fly as a wolf, so you’re trying to get everything just so now, huh?”

Peter drags in a deep breath, and Stiles pretends she can’t see the way some tension goes out of his shoulders. “That, yes.”

And she just. She can’t. He’s such a marshmallow under all the claws and murder. She crosses the clearing and wraps her arms around him. “It’ll be okay,” she murmurs. “I’m not helpless, I can help with all this, too. And don’t forget, I’ve seen you all furry before, I know you can communicate just fine when you’re shifted.”

Peter grunts, a small, almost-disagreeing sound, but his arms are warm and solid wrapped around her waist and he’s all but nuzzling her hair, so Stiles knows the grump is just for show.

She doesn’t push. Not this time. She just presses close against him, closes her eyes, and thinks about what they’re out here to do. Not the baby-making part—because if she focusses on that, she’ll get all tense and weird and anxious because she _needs_ it to work—but the part where her husband is going to do something deliciously wrong with her that nobody else who isn’t married and mated to a werewolf will ever get to experience. The part where her favourite pervert wholeheartedly agreed to get perverse with her without a moment’s hesitation, but only if he also gets to fuss and fiddle and fidget to make sure she’ll be as safe and comfortable as possible.

She knows he can smell the way her scent goes hot and gingery because he rumbles—a deep, hungry sound—and gives her a little squeeze before pulling back to kiss her. She moves with him, and doesn’t bother to hold back her whine when Peter deepens the kiss, licking into her mouth. Something—her eagerness, his, the needy sounds she’s making—lights a fire under his butt, and he’s suddenly laser-focussed on getting her naked and spread out atop the blanket-covered Nemeton.

She’s laughing and a little dizzy from how fast she wound up flat on her back, but her laugh morphs into a moan as Peter sinks to his knees. He drops kisses down her body, not stopping until his tongue is slipping between her folds and tracing over her clit.

Her breath catches and she winds her fingers in his hair, hips rolling and legs falling open, presenting herself to him and begging for more, all at once. She’s not self-conscious, not anymore. Not with her husband. How could she be, when his response—this time and every other—to her wordless invitation is to groan and lick greedily at her like her cunt is the best thing he’s ever tasted?

She rocks against his face, and he lets her, riding the movement of her hips without ever breaking away from where he’s suckling gently and flicking his tongue across her clit. It’s not long before she’s wet and needy, aching to have something inside her, but Peter doesn’t give in to her gasped whines, doesn’t slip a couple of his thick fingers inside the way she’s all but begging him to. He just keeps flicking his tongue over her, moving with the motion of her body until his big hands grip her hips and hold her down as he increases the pressure, sucking harder and flicking faster until she’s tensing, back bowing and fingers tugging on his hair as she comes with a stuttered cry.

She goes limp after, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Peter pulls away slowly, dropping little kisses just above her mound before he straightens from his crouch, his hands stroking up and down her thighs. “You good?”

“Uh huh.” It’s all she has the energy for right now.

Luckily, her husband knows and expected that. “I’m going to get the lube, start working you open for me.”

It’s a statement, but she can hear the question buried in it. “Sounds good,” she rasps, and it does. Her clit needs a break before she can go again, but she’s still achingly empty, and the sooner Peter fixes that, the better.

The little smirk he gives her when he shuffles her over and settles back between her splayed thighs says he knows it, too. She doesn’t tell him off for being cocky, can’t, because he doesn’t keep her waiting any longer—just slips two slicked-up fingers into her, and she’s so hungry for it that they sink inside like a hot knife through butter. He groans, reaching down and squeezing his cock through his jeans, probably getting off on the scent and sound as much as the sight and feel of her around his fingers.

He pumps them lazily, giving the odd twist to push against her g-spot, but it’s slow, designed to open her up for what’s coming rather than get her off again. If she wasn’t still recovering from that first orgasm she’d be riding his hand, because her husband has deliciously wicked fingers that she loves having inside her. It’s only the fact that she really does need the prep preventing her from calling him something derogatory for teasing her this way—because, for all his talk about good things coming to those who wait, Peter’s a hedonist who’s been spoiling her rotten for years.

Of course, he can still smell her emotions, because werewolves are rude that way. “Patience, brat,” he tuts. Despite saying that, he starts working a third finger inside her.

Stiles groans, loving the subtle stretch. “Don’t wanna.”

He huffs a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Tough shit,” he murmurs fondly, and she can’t help the way she grins in response.

“Terribly sorry the spark hasn’t died and that I’m still stupidly horny for you.” She has to pause when he curls his fingers, nailing her in the g-spot with enough force to make her gasp. “I mean, it’s your fault, really.”

Peter’s eyes narrow before taking on a particular glint. “Is that so?”

“Yep.” She moans as his fingers flex, trying to shut her up, but she’s determined to make him get this show on the road and get his cock out. “I mean, you did marry a much younger woman.”

He snorts at that. “The boys your own age didn’t have a hope of keeping up with you, and given that werewolves age slower than humans, it’s not as big of a deal as everyone else wanted to make it out to be.” He pauses for a moment, his free hand drifting gently up her torso cup her throat. “Besides, you’ve enjoyed reaping the benefits of my age and experience many times, in many different positions.” Peter’s voice drops to a whisper as his eyes flash crimson. “Or was that someone else dragging me to bed to ride me ragged two days ago?”

She whimpers, clenching around his fingers at the memory. “Have you tried being less sexy? Dialling down the raw animal magnetism? I’m only human, I can’t be expected to resist all that.” She flails an arm at him, and there’s no denying he looks unbelievably good right now, with his V-necked shirt showing off his muscled chest and thick neck, his forearm and bicep flexing as he fingers her open, his blue eyes dark and his cock straining against the zip of his jeans.

“Oh, but sweetheart,” he croons, eyes glowing crimson and fangs dropping as he slides his fingers free with a filthy wet sound. “We’re here to dial it up.”

He stands then, his stare heavy as he strips off, and there’s no denying that it’s making her cunt throb. It’s satisfying to see that Peter’s cock is flushed red and rock hard, springing free from his jeans in a way that’s almost cartoonish, except there’s nothing silly about the way _want_ is present in every line of his body.

“Hands and knees for me, baby,” he growls, and she’s moving before she realizes what he’s said, distorted as it is by the way the wolf in him is being called to the surface, the rising full moon drawing it out like a magnet.

She’s on all-fours when clawed hands glide up the insides of her thighs. “Wider.” She obeys, shuffling her knees apart, displaying for her husband, knowing Peter will be able to see how puffy her folds are, how shiny and sticky with lube and slick. She’s no stranger to this position, but she’s never been on a platform raising her crotch to Peter’s eye-level and she’s not sure she likes it.

But Peter appears next to her before she has a chance to get weird about it, and he’s all the way beta-shifted now. She works with him to heap pillows underneath her, to support her knees and chest so she’s not trying to hold them both up while having the most intense sexual experience of her life. Peter brushes his knuckles up the line of her throat afterwards, tipping her chin to look at him.

“I’m going to shift now. I want you to stay, just like this.” Stiles hears what he doesn’t say, that he doesn’t want her to watch as he does, and she nods. “Once I’ve bred you and we’re tied, I want you to make yourself come.”

She swallows reflexively, licking her lips. “I’ll do my best.” Because she’s not actually sure if that’s a request she can fulfill. It’s not like they’ve done this before.

A gravelly sound reverberates through his chest as he drops to his knees to nuzzle at her throat. “Need to milk it, come for me so it takes.”

“Jesus Christ,” she murmurs, so turned on she’s about to start leaking down her inner thighs, because she gets it, now. Peter’s always an out-of-this-world mix of insatiable and solicitous around the full moon, hard enough to pound nails but hungrier for her orgasms than his own. Since he’s embracing the wolf to full shift, all those instincts must be even louder than when he’s holding onto his human shape.

And, because Peter married a little shit, she drops her head and goes down onto her forearms, exposing the back of her neck and arching her spine. “I will, Alpha,” she whimpers, high and breathy like the prey she’s never really been. “I’ll be good for you, promise. Please fill me up now? Need you.”

Peter stalks off, and Stiles closes her eyes, resting her forehead against her arms, and she waits. The grunts and cracking of shifting bones isn’t exactly sexy, but knowing what will come after more than makes up for it, so she waits it out, breathing deep and trying to hold onto her arousal. There’s a long moment of silence, and then she hears a soft chuffing sound before Peter licks up the back of her thigh.

It startles her a little, because she doesn’t expect it, but she’s laughing, so she knows Peter won’t be upset. Sure enough, he leaps nimbly up next to her on the Nemeton, standing over her in his full shift, and it makes her aware of how very, very small she must look—how small she _is_ —underneath him. The thought has her canting her hips up and back in a way that Peter would call “greedy” if he had the facial setup for words right now.

Luckily for her, he doesn’t, and he also doesn’t bother to tease—he shifts his stance, forelegs stretching out as he presses his furred chest against her back, lining up until the tip of his tapered wolfcock is nudging at her soaked entrance. He slides inside her easily, and she can feel as much as hear the pleased rumble he makes. Stiles can’t help but squirm as he starts to rock, because while he’s nowhere near his usual girth like this, he’s hotter than usual, and his cock gliding inside her feels like a brand.

She has a mental image of burning up from the inside from their combined heat, but then her husband’s furry hips snap and any thoughts she might’ve had disappear as Peter picks up the pace—no longer rocking smoothly, but thrusting furiously, using her as he chases his finish. If he were his usual size, it might be rough, might even be too much, but the sleek taper of his shifted cock means it just feels good, and Stiles tries to stifle her whimpers even though she knows Peter can hear them anyway.

Peter snarls as he starts to come, his knot growing and pushing against her g-spot. She tries to hold still, to be good and let her husband tie, but she can’t help the way she squirms back against him, trying to grind the blood-hot swell against her g-spot, because the gentle pressure is a tease she can’t take. Peter ruts forward one last time, going deep as his knot finishes expanding, and they tie.

Stiles is whining and shaking, her cunt fuller than it’s ever been in her life, throbbing in time with her pulse at their combined heat and the need to come. She squirms her left arm free, and starts worming it between her body and the mountain of pillows she’s propped up on and absolutely needed until she can reach her clit. When she does, she realizes she’s slippery wet, hot come slipping down her thighs in little trails as Peter pumps so much into her, the knot can’t hold it all inside.

Stiles moans as her fingertips slide over her swollen clit, and Peter licks and nuzzles at the back of her neck and shoulder as she touches herself, muscles tensing as she gets close, because it won’t take much. For all that she worried she wouldn’t be able to come like this—that it would be too much, too strange, that it would feel bad and wrong instead of filthy hot—she’s so stupidly turned on by this that nothing could _stop_ her from coming at this point. Especially with Peter snuffling wordless encouragement at her, his hips shifting ever so slightly to grind inside her, and she knows it’s for her benefit—he’s already come, and must be sensitive by now, but he’d told her before he shifted that she needs to come on his knot, so he’s doing everything he can to make it happen.

That thought and the wave of love that follows it is what tips her over, and she gasps wetly as she comes, choking on the wail caught in her throat. She’s grateful, after, that she doesn’t have to move, that she can just lie here and try to catch her breath. Peter crowds in close—closer than he already is, which Stiles wouldn’t have thought possible—to tuck his big head over her shoulder, his furry cheek pressed against her smooth one. It’s an awkward position, one that can’t be comfortable for him, but she knows it’s as close as he can get to holding her right now, and she’s grateful for it. Stiles brings her right hand up to stroke gently over his muzzle, and he snorts.

“Hush, you,” she mumbles. “It’s what I can reach.”

He sneaks the tip of his tongue out and licks the corner of her mouth.

“Gross,” she teases, even as she tilts her head to kiss his nose.

***

By the time they separate, Stiles has come twice more, and she knows her legs will ache fiercely tomorrow. She should be aching now, but she suspects her Alpha husband has been sneakily draining her pain. She feels empty once he pulls out, used and oversensitive, and she doesn’t fight his hands once he shifts back, letting him roll her over and onto her back.

She doesn’t remember what he says, but she knows he cradles her as he holds a bottle of water to her lips. Knows he wets the corner of an already-filthy blanket and uses it to wipe up the worst of the mess from her thighs. She feels loved and content as they lay atop the Nemeton twined together, and she knows that, no matter what happens, this is something they’ll both cherish.

Peter really does end up carrying her from the clearing, naked and wrapped in a dry, clean blanket, held tight against his bare chest. He still smells wild, more wolf than man, and Stiles doesn’t resist the urge to nuzzle in and press a kiss to his throat. He says her name, and, when she looks up, he kisses her, tasting of wolf and magic and sex.

***

Her period doesn’t come on its scheduled day, and Stiles refuses to get her hopes up. She doesn’t say anything to Peter, either, even though she knows he can scent the lack of blood and pain. She’s had too many late periods that were just that— _late_ , because the only thing in her life that runs on an actual schedule is her husband’s time of the month.

So she doesn’t let herself think about it what it might mean. She doesn’t reach for the pregnancy tests they have stocked under the sink in the master bathroom, and she doesn’t text any of the Pack or call her dad. Not this time.

This time, the only thing she does is wait, because she’s learned the hard way that it’s the only _safe_ option.

***

After two more weeks of waiting, fourteen whole days without the bleeding she half-expects and fully dreads, she lets herself hope enough to dig out a pregnancy test from under the sink. She pees on the little stick while Peter is out running errands, then she caps it and waits. Every beat of her heart feels like a gong, vibrating through her chest and echoing in her ears until the timer on her phone goes off, and then it stops beating, just for a second, before tripping into a jackhammering rhythm that would scare the shit out of Peter if he were here.

But he’s not, because she knew she needed to find out on her own, for both their sakes. She can’t handle waiting with him anymore, can’t take seeing her own disappointment reflected and doubled in his face. But it does mean she’s alone now, and has to make herself look, end the paradox of Schrodinger’s baby.

So she takes a deep breath, and she looks at the result, and then she spends a few minutes quietly crying before splashing her face with cold water. She doesn’t want to look all blotchy when Peter gets home.

She’s just about composed herself when he gets back, and to his credit, he knows right away that something’s up. “You okay, sweetheart?”

He’s already moving towards her, the bags at his feet forgotten, and Stiles’s eyes well up, even as she smiles. “I’m great, Daddy.”

He freezes, thrown for a moment, and then his eyes widen as the implication hits. “Are you—”

“We did it,” she whispers, holding out the positive test.

Peter doesn’t bother to look at it, picking her up and swinging her around, his breaths shuddering as he holds her tight, and she’s crying again, and she thinks he might be too, but it’s okay, because they’re happy tears. _It worked_. They’re going to be parents.

**Author's Note:**

> Before anyone asks, no, I will not be writing more of this/a sequel. Pregnancy and kid fic are trigger territory for me, and I doubt I will ever write those tropes. But in case you were curious: Peter hovers like a helicopter through her entire first trimester, because he’s terrified Stiles is going to miscarry. She gives birth to a healthy, beautiful baby girl, and two years later, when they’re ready for another baby, they go back out to the Nemeton. The second time, they have a son. 
> 
> That being said: please let me know if you enjoyed this!


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